we just got back in.  my head is swimming.  i am not sure what to make of what i have seen.  i am not sure how to place it.  i am panicked, and thus am finding it a bit difficult to express myself with my typical verbosity.  now i know how hamlet felt on spying claudius, vulnerable and yet praying.  pity has stayed my hand and i must confess i loathe my weakness in observing it.

cheryl and i were out on a stroll.  i would like to say we were holding some ingenious reconnaissance, but in all veracity, we were simply getting some exercise.  i confess to be a bit of a homebody myself, my nigh-crippling ornithophobia being a chief factor in this.  she believed helios's brilliant flame would  bolster my constitution.

fortunately, the pleasant company and warm weather did not dull the edge of our vigilance, and we ducked into an alley before we could be spotted by our enemy.  caliban and sycorax.

they were not lurking, however.  not leading children to their doom.  converting and devouring the unwary.

they were eating ice cream.  they were smiling.  and laughing.  and i hate, i hate them so much for being able to laugh and smile with their loved ones they killed my cordelia they killed by parents and regan and goneril

but they were not killing.  as i watched, sycorax took a napkin and cleaned caliban's face.  with motherly love.  tenderness.  she lifted his spoon and fed him, with an earnest, loving expression.

but i must remember what they are, and they did well enough to remind me, for sycorax again lifted the spoon to caliban's lips and, just for a moment, a beaked head protruded from his mouth, long enough to get its own vile share of confection.

i must remember, even if their actions reach towards heaven, they themselves are below.

they are monsters.  the next i see them i must attempt to end them.

the appearance of love must merely be an affectation.  or perhaps it is a mechanism they use to obfuscate their own shame at what they are, what base creatures they are for allowing the holy temple of their corporeal form to be so desecrated by beasts.

but if it is true, if they are truly a mother and child, and behave thus...i think i hate them more.  i hate them for that purity they profess, when i have lost so much of my own heart, my own soul.  if they truly feel love....then i feel for them nothing but contempt.  if ever in my life i do a good deed on creatures such as they, no matter how they appear, i do repent it, on my very soul.

but throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey

ornithophobia is not a fear i ever particularly saw myself having.  younger, i may have scorned it.  why would anyone fear a bird?

now that i possess it--however justified it may be, i lament on just how crippling it is.

you probably do not remember the last time you saw a bird, because they are, simply put, everywhere.

think about just how many birds there are, even now, in winter.  think of how many birds there are in your city,  your town.  you cannot escape them.

wherever there are people, there are pigeons, and if not pigeons, then gulls, and if not gulls, then murder after murder of crows.  the town i was raised in was famous for crows.  crows everywhere.  crows always.  their incessant cawing was a comfort, when i was younger.  i took solace in them.  they're bright birds, did you know that?  some are even better with tools than primates are.  and yet, so misunderstood.  so reviled.  what outcast would not want to become a crow?

now, they hold no mystery, no appeal.  no bird does.  the elegant swan, the peaceful dove, the rambunctious crow, all give me dread in the place of wonder.  true, not all of them hold the same terrible force that drives those i flee from...but how can i tell which flock can split the heavens and which is simply driven by brute consciousness?

i think we take birds for granted.  true, these days we do not have much to fear from them, but we forget about the mighty terror bird.  we neglect to remember how the more terrifying of the thunder lizards are the modern avian's close relatives.

i fear i'm rambling.  it's hard not to.  i'm finding this is my only release.  i have been taking shelter, when i can, where there are no windows, though i hold no illusions that they cannot simply find my door, veiled in the willing flesh of a traitor to our species.  most probably, a traitor i once called friend.